


You'll Wish You'd Never Met Him, Darling

by orphan_account



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Curse!AU, Darling Pan - Freeform, F/M, Gen, Major AU, Multi, Other, this was orphaned b/c im sick of getting comments and asks asking for updates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:02:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is a lonely, bookish girl, and he is a wild, irksome boy. They're two mismatched puzzle pieces that aren't meant to fit together. (But he makes them fit.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Prologue

  * A graphic made for story by the lovely [amphirtrites ](http://amphitrites.tumblr.com/)can be found [here](http://just-a-girl-who-writes.tumblr.com/post/68511250525/amphitrites-youll-wish-youd-never-met-him).
  * The list of characters and their counterpart names can be found [here](http://just-a-girl-who-writes.tumblr.com/post/68381684034/characters-their-counterpart-names-for-everyone).



* * *

 

Sundays are kind of the best days, and kind of the worst days, for the girl slouching in her swing at the far end of the swing-set, on the outskirts of the empty elementary school playground. They always feel like they’re at the very end of the week – not the beginning, like the calendar always tells her. No, they always feel a little bit off, a little bit … well,  _sleepy_  just might be the right word for it. (Maybe. Who knows?) Maybe it’s because it’s the end of the weekend, or maybe it’s because she’s done all her schoolwork by then. For all she knows, it could be how it is because there’s no mail on Sundays. Sleepy  _is_  the right word, she decides, because she finds that her bones feel like they could sit idle, swaying slowly, letting the cool, early-autumn breeze move her body as lazily as a cat might stretch in the sun.

Looking up to the sky, she feels the corners of her mouth quirk downwards as the near-silence of the early Sunday afternoon continues to stifle any thoughts of getting off the swing and heading home, to see if she can make herself useful. The sun is a bright blob behind the screen of gray clouds; when she looks at it, she only has to squint a  _little_  bit in order to actually  _see_  the burning ball of light. She’s liked overcast days like this, but, admittedly, she doesn’t like the faint, moist smell in the air – the kind that tells her darker, scarier-looking clouds are coming, with the promise of a storm, with fierce winds and icy rain being carried on the breeze from the docks.

An uneasy feeling settles into the pit of her stomach as she kicks at the ground with her scuffed black shoes. Gray tights seem to spring up from the worn-out sneakers, like a dandelion weed would spring up from a crack in the cement. Her black skirt covers her knees, her oversized ( _soft and fuzzy_ ) magenta-colored sweater settles where her thighs bend in the swing. The sleeves go past her fingertips, hiding her cold hands from the chilly late-September breeze. Her hair, blonde and kind-of-curly, is pulled away from her face. (She can read better when her hair isn’t in her eyes.)

Her hands, covered in her sleeves, are clasped loosely in her lap, and her eyes begin to wander across the scene before her eyes. The playground feels lonely, without the usual amount of children here. On weekdays, after school, there are children shoving each other off the mary-go-round, trying to see who can make who go highest on the teeter-totter. The tall yellow slide has a pool of water at its end – a thing common on Sunday afternoons, because no child who lives  _this_  close to a body of water is dumb enough to go to a playground where everything is covered in moisture from Saturday evening’s tiny amount of rain.

She is used to this, sitting on a cold, dampened swing, by herself, letting the toes of her shoes drag lightly across the ground – used to the quiet of being alone in the playground on a Sunday afternoon.

It’s not like she doesn’t have any friends. She actually has a few. There’s Teresa, the blonde, (mostly) pleasant older girl, whose family is from New Zealand. Nice girl, who’s always looked out for her. And there’s Henry – Henry Mills – even though he’s not in her grade (not even in her school), even though his mother is the unpleasant Mayor of Storybrooke. And there’s Ruby – but lots of people are friends with Ruby, so she’s not quite sure if that counts.

Well, okay, so maybe she doesn’t even have a  _few_  friends, but she’s not unliked, and people are (generally; generally does  _not_ mean always) nice to her. A lot of her classmates get along fine with her, and her with them, mainly because she tries her best to get social gatherings over with so she can return to her books and solitude. But that’s fine, because her parents are okay, and her grades are doing okay, and she likes the tenth grade so far, even though they’re not that far into the year. She doesn’t really talk to people – always has her nose in a book, usually sits by herself because Teresa is a grade above her and has a different lunch than her – unless she has to, which is more often than she’d like.

Lately, though, she’s been having to do more and more group projects for her classes. There’s more partner work this year, more class discussion – and it bothers her, because, if she truly had a choice, she would be left alone, parents and brothers’ concerns for her (lack of) social life be damned.

The swing continues to rock her gently, back and forth, and her arms move to wrap themselves around her middle, so she’s holding herself in an attempt to chase the thoughts that have begun to churn inside her head like a bubbling cauldron away. ( _Not lonely, not lonely, not lonely_ ,)

Books are all that she needs, is what she tells herself, as she slowly gets to her feet – stretches – looks about – before turning, slowly, towards the direction she will take home. She hasn’t seen anyone today – but that’s because she’s been here since morning. Maybe she’ll see someone on the way home.

With her arms dangling at her sides, fabric covering her cold fingers, Natalie continues to tell herself that all she needs is books.

( _she is a lonely, lonely, bookish girl._ )


	2. Morning Gone Sour

  * A graphic made for story by the lovely [amphirtrites ](http://amphitrites.tumblr.com/)can be found [here](http://just-a-girl-who-writes.tumblr.com/post/68511250525/amphitrites-youll-wish-youd-never-met-him).
  * The list of characters and their counterpart names can be found [here](http://just-a-girl-who-writes.tumblr.com/post/68381684034/characters-their-counterpart-names-for-everyone).

* * *




When Natalie steps off the bus, the first thing that happens is that a body slams into hers, and sends her sprawling onto the pavement. She thinks it was an accident, even though her shoulder feels like pain’s growing roots in her bones like a weed growing in the crack of a sidewalk. No one stops to help her up, and if she hears someone mutter “klutz” or snicker softly, under their breath, she pretends to hear it.

She picks herself off the ground, quickly, and, making sure she didn’t drop anything on the ground, she hurries up the walkway towards the steps that lead up Storybrooke High’s front doors. She hasn’t seen Teresa yet, which either meant someone gave her a ride, she’s sick, or she’s decided that today is going to be yet another Monday where she sleeps in. Natalie can’t blame her, though – not in the slightest.

She finds herself pushing the swinging door away from her, trying to ignore the fact that she was actually looking forward to seeing Teresa today – before class started, because usually if  _she’s_ here, than it’s less likely that she’ll stumble into anyone, and get some words for her clumsiness.

She stops at her locker, and begins spinning the dial, going  _3, 14, 25_ , absentmindedly. She swings it open, her eyes glassy and unseeing. She didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, for some reason. There had been something wrong – something that she couldn’t place, something she couldn’t name – but it had kept her awake until five this morning, and an hour later, her alarm clock had begun playing its daily tune of aggravating beeping (Mother insists that that’s what she needs to wake  _up_  but what she needs is a way to get to  _sleep_ ).

She had shuffled around her house, shoving jam-drenched she couldn’t taste into her mouth, choked on the orange juice by drinking it too fast, and had nearly tripped over her own two feet while she had stumbled out of the house, right on time, though her hair had to be pulled back (because she doesn’t wake up in time anymore for her to do anything for it – not unless Teresa comes over early) into a knot, with strands of curly blonde hair framing her face. The morning air was brisk and cold, but she had ignored how it stung at her rosy cheeks as she had slung the strap of her book-bag over her head, so it crossed her chest while the thick material, filled with a textbook, two notebooks, a few folders, and loose sheets of papers bumped against her hip as she walked towards the bus stop.

Now here she is, still having trouble with clearing her groggy mind from the one hour’s worth of sleep she’d gotten, trading in her textbooks for another, thicker one, while trying not to drop anything.

She hears something behind her (someone clearing their throat), close to her, and, she  _knows_  she ought not to turn her head and look to see who it is (she knows, she  _knows_ ), but she turns her head, just a bit, so she can peer through the blonde strands of hair, hand frozen on the dial of her locker, ready to be closed.

And she sees that  _he_  is standing rather close to her, looking down at her. (She can’t  _believe_  she forgot. And now, now she remembers, and she feels her stomach clench into anxious knots.) There is a scowl twisting his lips, and his wiry arms are crossed over his chest. He’s wearing that favorite green hoodie, she thinks idly, the one that’s dark and reminds her of trees in a jungle (why a  _jungle_? – why not a bug or a frog or something equally as distasteful as him?). His eyes are sharp, and he looks unhappy. She doesn’t remember doing anything that would upset anyone, let alone him –

“Do you  _have_  it?” His voice is sharp, like a razor blade, and she tries her best not to wince. Well, she should have been expecting this, then. She shuts her locker, quietly, and turns fully to face him. Idly wondering if  _he_  is the one she’d bumped into (if he’s the one who knocked her over, because she thinks he  _might be_ ), she opens her book-bag, trying to ignore how his eyes are burning holes into her skin. His gaze is heated (angry, angry,  _he always seems so angry_ ), and it’s making her skin prickle (she’s not  _scared_ ).

She eventually finds what he’s asking for, and hands it over to him. He takes it, looking a little less tense, a little less mean (scary), and he gives her some sort of twisted mockery of a half-smile, one that’s supposed to make her  _think_  that it’s an actual smile.

But Natalie knows that when Lucas smiles at her like that, he’s all teeth and claws and she doesn’t want to find out what it would be like to see him  _really_  angry.

He tucks the paper she gave him in his jeans’ back pocket, eyes locked on her, and she shuffles her feet awkwardly – looking around, at anywhere but him – desperate for someone to come along and  _save_  her from the boy with the scalding gaze (not scared, not scared, not  _scared_ ).

“Thanks, Natalie,” he says in a cheery ( _mocking, always mocking_ ) tone, nodding his head slightly, and she just wants him to go away, so she asks him if  _this is it_ – and he knows what she means by that, because he’s been making her nervous ever since last Thursday, and now that she’s given him what he asked for (wanted), she’s hoping he’ll leave her alone, like he did before Thursday (before he even knew she was  _there_ ).

Something in his eyes shift, and he nods, his eyes darting downwards. She knows he’s taking in how her hands nervously clutch the book-bag’s strap through sweater-sleeve-covered hands (her fingers are  _always_   _cold_ ) – how her feet shuffle only a tiny bit in place. She wonders if he can  _see_  her stomach churning, see her feeling sick (she feels more scared than helpless right now). And she thinks he does, when he nods, tells her she never has to see him again – and walks away, but not without an unspoken threat in the air between them ( _no telling_ ) and a full-blown smirk in her direction. She feels like she’s been shaken up like a ragdoll.

(not scared, not scared,  _not scared_. Just socially awkward, not good with people, that’s all.  _right?_ )

Natalie watches him walk (saunter?) down the hall, disappearing into the crowded, narrow halls of the high school. The feeling in her stomach doesn’t go away, and that gives her an even worse feeling –

“ _Natalie_!”

She looks up, startled, eyes wide, to see Teresa grinning at her. Her hair is pulled back, she looks happy – happier than Natalie knows she’ll be today, because she’s  _stupid, stupid, stupid_  – and –

“Something wrong?” the junior asks, squinting (jokingly or suspiciously, she can’t tell) at the shaky girl, and she considers telling Teresa – about her accidentally getting herself into trouble because she couldn’t mind her own business – about her getting  _out_ of trouble by agreeing to give Lucas test answers for a test he never studied for – but then she decides that something like this won’t happen again.

She had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, with the wrong sort of mindset. Of course, this wouldn’t happen again, right? Everything would go back to normal, she thinks, as she nods and smiles weakly at her friend, who grins, grabs her hand, and starts pulling her towards the Natalie’s first period class.

Yes, Lucas will go back to being a broody boy that nobody really talks to, with some seriously questionable habits and friends. He will go back to pretending like she doesn’t exist, and she will resume (secretly) observing him from the sidelines, like she does with everyone else she doesn’t know, wondering how a boy like him could have ended up like he is.

Yes, she thinks, trying to get rid of the feeling in her stomach ( _she’d just helped him cheat!_ ), everything will go back to normal after this. No more worrying about getting told on (he’d said he’d lie to get her in as much trouble as he would’ve been in and she believed that he wouldn’t hesitate to because, over time, she’s seen that he is  _very, very good at lying_ and he won’t hesitate to get someone else in trouble, too), no more worries about having to cheat for anyone – there will be  _no more_  interaction with the (scary, wolf-like, who has hidden claws and sharp teeth and cunning, clever eyes) boy named Lucas.

* * *

( _she doesn’t get away that easily – she should have seen it coming – stupid, of her.)_

* * *

They’d had a deal, the two of them: if she got him the answers, he would leave her alone. For good.

_(he broke it, broke it, broke it.)_


	3. Plans That Aren't Plans

  * A graphic made for story by the lovely [amphirtrites ](http://amphitrites.tumblr.com/)can be found [here](http://just-a-girl-who-writes.tumblr.com/post/68511250525/amphitrites-youll-wish-youd-never-met-him).
  * The list of characters and their counterpart names can be found [here](http://just-a-girl-who-writes.tumblr.com/post/68381684034/characters-their-counterpart-names-for-everyone).

* * *




Lucas is not generally a fan of getting up early and having to go to school. In fact, he’s not really a fan of mornings, or people, or morning people. Except Seth, because Seth is loyal, and he’s kind-of a friend. Maybe. But Lucas doesn’t have (need) friends, because he’s doing just fine on his own.

That morning, Seth had woken him up, because Seth’s the kind of person to do that, even though he knows he might get a finger bitten off, and they had shuffled out the door, side by side, after half an hour’s worth of trying to find his things for school and Seth trying to get him to move. faster.

His mind wasn’t really focused on anything that morning, when he’d been heading past the bus stop towards the front doors of the school – and then he had been thinking about how clumsy some people were when someone bumped into him. He’d looked over his shoulder – and had snickered, at who he’d bumped into. It was –

Oh.

He had ignored her, knowing she hadn’t seen him, and had followed Seth inside, remembering what he needed from her – and had eventually found her again, once Seth had went to class, and, oh, it had been fun, seeing how nervous she was about the whole thing.

It’s good, he thinks, that she held up her end of the bargain (deal), and it’s nice to know that he didn’t fail another test, but there was something about her – something aboutNatalie that left a strange feeling, buzzing in his fingertips, but he had brushed it off, and had walked away.

The morning has, so far, gone well. The girl had gotten him what he wanted, he hadn’t had to lie about her, and no one had yet to aggravate him. He’s no longer in a snappy mood, though, he’s never really friendly, so no one except Seth sees a huge difference in his attitude.

His mind doesn’t wander very far from I want to go to sleep and when’s a good time to sneak out? – not until his computer class, where they’re learning how to work with specific programs that are meant to be resources for projects, for classes like history, language, and arts.

He can work computers just fine – it’s just that the girl next to him can’t.

(Which just happens to be Natalie.)

She doesn’t ask for help (never). Usually, the girl on her other side leans over and silently (kindly) helps her out with a smile on her face, and at first glance, you might convinced that it’s a pride thing (an I’m-too-good-to-ask-for-help kind of thing), and that’s what he thought, during the first week or so of school. But, for some reason, he’s noticed, over the weeks, that it’s more of a I-don’t-want-to-bother-anyone kind of thing, which, to him, is kind a little more tolerable (not endearing never that, no, no, no) than a pride thing.

He tries to ignore the fact that the girl who usually helps her is absent today, and that she doesn’t seem to remember how to upload a file to a program – and suddenly, it justannoys him that she’s kind of helpless with something as simply as this – so he reaches over, on impulse (he couldn’t have stopped himself even if he had tried his best to) into her space, and nudges her hand off her mouse with a finger, because someone’s got to help the helpless mouse (ha), right? (And he doesn’t want to be asked to help her by the teacher, so, really, he’s just saving his own arse, so he’s technically not doing anything nice. At all.)

She squeaks, and she turns her head, to look at him, but his eyes are on her computer screen. “You were getting on my nerves,” he tells her, because her staring at him is annoying him now, and that’s all she gets, and soon, he’s fixed her problem, and has gone back to his own work. She keeps sending him curious (alarmed) looks every two minutes or so, and it’s kind of amusing, seeing how unnerved she is just by his helping her (and not even a thank-you, either!).

When class gets out, she is the first to rush out the door with her bag towards lunch, and he watches her fly out the door, and he thinks that his mood has improved, just a little bit, because of this little encounter. It had been entertaining (fun), and –

He wants to do it again.

When he heads out the door, with his things tucked under his arm, his mind begins to plan – a plan without a plan.

His plan: to get her to look just like that (it’ll be fun, he thinks, like a game) at him (jittery. unnerved.) and maybe even get her to squeak again (okay, so maybe that was more of an incentive to bother her – because of that, how could he not want to see her again?).

How he plans to do that:

Well, he has no idea.

But he finds (his step is lighter, the smirk on his face is dangerous, hiding sharp teeth) that this plan without a plan just might be the start of something fun.

And the first thing he does, is corner her at lunch, while she’s sitting by herself, at the far end of the cafeteria. They have first lunch together – her annoyingly quirky blonde friend and Seth both have second – and so he has no problem sliding right up next to her on the bench.

Her eyes are as wide as cherry pies, and she drops her sandwich onto her brown lunch sack. A tiny, inhuman, high-pitched noise leaves her throat, and she scoots away from him, but she’s soon shoulder-to-shoulder with a wall, and she didn’t really get far.

“What are you –” she seems to have trouble with her words, and he finds that this is pretty great, too, but he doesn’t leave, even though her eyes dart about, looking for an escape.

In the back of his mind, he knows that this is probably because she’s so easy to scare. He’s only doing this because he is not a nice boy, and since he knows she’s not particularly fond of him, it just fuels him on. (He ignores the fact that this came out of nowhere though. He thinks should blackmail her more often.)

“Can’t I just say hello?” he quirks his eyebrows at her, and her eyes widen further, and soon, he’s sliding off the bench, and away from her with a mouth twisted upwards as he chuckles. His eyes are dancing with a mischivious light that make her frown at him, and he thinks this is just great.

Oh, messing with this mousy girl is going to be fun – he grins a feral grin at her, one that he knows will make her subconsciously lean back away from him – and she does, and then he’s gone, leaving her staring after him.

Natalie stares after him (not his swaying hips never never never), in shock, and bewilderment.

What on Earth could that had been about?

She wonders if it’s just a one-time thing, making sure she didn’t tell, or something. And she hadn’t! She’s kept her word – but she’s frowning now, and she’s not hungry anymore, because his grin had made her appetite fly out the window and she has to rest her head in her hands because this is probably the start of something not-so-good.

She makes a promise to herself to tell Teresa all about it, after school.


	4. Mission Gone Awry

  * A graphic made for story by the lovely [amphirtrites ](http://amphitrites.tumblr.com/)can be found [here](http://just-a-girl-who-writes.tumblr.com/post/68511250525/amphitrites-youll-wish-youd-never-met-him).
  * The list of characters and their counterpart names can be found [here](http://just-a-girl-who-writes.tumblr.com/post/68381684034/characters-their-counterpart-names-for-everyone).

* * *




Natalie is on edge throughout the entire day, but Lucas does not speak to her again, not right after lunch, anyway. She wonders what happened, what she did – if he was just making sure she wouldn’t _try_ anything, she doesn’t know, but class gets out, she makes a run for it – to Teresa’s, because Teresa _needs_ to know about this. She’s been trying to figure out how she’s going to bring this up to her friend – because, she doesn’t quite know how to break it to her.

* * *

 

She’s never been good about this kind of thing, never, never, _never_. And that’s why she’s so _nervous_. She only has one last class before the day’s over – and, in passing each other in the halls, Teresa had said that she was going to hang out with her – and Wendy’s not sure she wants to _hang out_ , but she _needs_ to know, because Natalie has a bad, bad feeling in the pit of her stomach that a) makes her want to throw up, and b) tells her that this probably isn’t the end of – well, whatever it is that she’s gotten herself into; she can feel it, deep inside, and she _loathes_ what must be to come.

Natalie has made it her personal mission to _never_ willingly speak to that boy again. If he talks to her (she knows she will – but she was born with two legs, so she’ll get away, if she has to), she won’t talk _with_ him. She won’t speak to him, won’t willingly spend any _time_ with him – nothing of the sort. It’s a personal mission she thinks she can pull off.

But, truthfully, she’s never been confident about this kind of thing. Planning plans (missions?), that is.

She’s currently in math class – she has two of them, she’s doubling up each year so she doesn’t have to take any her senior year – and it’s the one that the majority of her grade is taking. It’s not by any means easy – math has _never_ been easy – but it’s not very _difficult_ , either. She sits by herself, in the front left corner of the room. Never getting called on and never getting noticed by the teacher is a blessing – but the same can’t be said for those in the middle of the room, who the teacher generally calls on. At the beginning of every class, they go over their homework, and the teacher always tells them she’s going to call on someone _randomly_ , but the two outermost rows on each side of the room _never_ get called on, unless they raise their hands.

Natalie is doodling in the margins of her notebook paper. She’s only half listening to what the answers are – and she can’t help but internally cringe whenever someone calls out the wrong answer, because she remembers what is was like, calling out wrong answers when you’re not even willing to share them in the first place – but that was before she’d been tutored for two years.

Now she’s where she wanted to be, three years ago – on the sidelines, unnoticed, in just the _right_ spot –

Something bumps her head. It feels more like a tap, and she nearly lets out a squeak as she sits upright in her chair. Her eyes dart around, after finding the wad of paper on the floor next to her chair, but no one near her is looking at her, nobody is even _looking_ in her general direction –

Her eyes fall on Lucas before she can stop them, and he gives her a smirk and a two-fingered salute. His feet are up on his desk, and his other arm is lying across his stomach. He’s in the row next to hers, but he’s second to the back. (Looks like that mission will be harder to accomplish that she thought.)

Natalie turns her head as fast as she can. Her cheeks are _burning_.

It’s all okay, for the next few minutes. The teacher begins the next section of the chapter, and people whip out their notebooks or simply sit back and their seats, close their eyes with their fingers laced together behind their heads, while the others take notes. The teacher will be writing on the white board for the next ten minutes, and Wendy starts off well – paying attention attentively, as Teresa would say –

Something hits her on the side of the head, and she feels her body stiffen before she can tell herself that it’s _only_ Lucas, even though her mind is _racing_ and all she can think is _ignore him, ignore him all you can_. She doesn’t look back at him, though, in order not to, she has to clench her teeth and fist the fabric of her jacket in her hands. Class has barely even _begun_ , and –

Another wad of paper sails through the air and hits her, on the shoulder this time, and she nudges it under the desk behind her with a kick of her foot once the balled up scrap of notebook paper lands on the carpeted ground. She chances a glance over her shoulder, and he’s got his face angled towards the board, but when his eyes slide over to her and he _winks_ –

Well, she can’t be blamed for turning back to the front as fast as she can.

She knows this mission (stupid of her, to think she could pull this _off_ ) has already gone awry – she knows, because of the glances she could feel being sprinkled onto her back, like someone would scatter hot coals. A few times, she felt his stare _burning_ into her back – her neck, her head, but mostly her _spine_ , and she can hardly wait for the bell to ring so she can be dismissed – so she can pull Teresa into an alcove cut out of the wall and let the words bubbling up just behind her sealed lips spill over – so Teresa knows _exactly why_ Natalie’s cheeks feel like they’ve been set on fire, why she feel so _antsy_ – and why she’d nearly puked this morning.

(Teresa hadn’t seen the last part, but she _notices_ things, things she’s not supposed to – and she knows she’s going to have to explain things, explain things that she’s not looking forward to explaining.)

* * *

 

When the bell finally rings, she rushes down her row, textbook tucked safely under the arm – after putting away her educational necessities away early, which, usually, she _never_ does – and she’s nearly out the door when she _feels_ Lucas breeze past her, among the throng of students who are too wrapped up in their own troubles and dramas and lives to notice _them_ – but he doesn’t leave her to her last class without a crooked smirk thrown in her direction – and no one should blame her if they heard the squeak make its way past her lips.

Because a cold hand had, for just a second, reached towards her, and had run his fingers up her side – like a _spider’s legs_ – before turning in another direction.

Natalie swears she could feel the coolness of his skin through the fabric of her sweatshirt, and she can’t help but feel jittery for the rest of the day. She _hates_ that her self-appointed mission as gone awry – _failed_ – because he’d thrown some paper wads at her and _slide his fingers up her side_ (she wants to _scream_ at that, but she can’t, because she doesn’t see Teresa till later).

* * *

 

The last class of the day passes slowly – torturously so – and when she gets out, and, while passing, finds out that Teresa will be coming over after _dinner_ (no, no, _no!_ ), Natalie forces a smile, shoves down her panic, and heads for the bus station outside the school, as fast as she can.

( _As she walks, she feels the ghosts of his fingers and the burn of his gaze – and the feelings don’t fade, not even when she gets home.)_


	5. Sleep Isn't Wished For, Anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Naming guide comes in handy for the rest of the story, methinks.  
> Debating whether if this should be dark or fluff or both or not. Hmmm.  
> Apologies for the delay and probable spelling errors.

  * A graphic made for story by the lovely [amphirtrites ](http://amphitrites.tumblr.com/)can be found [here](http://just-a-girl-who-writes.tumblr.com/post/68511250525/amphitrites-youll-wish-youd-never-met-him).
  * The list of characters and their counterpart names can be found [here](http://just-a-girl-who-writes.tumblr.com/post/68381684034/characters-their-counterpart-names-for-everyone).



* * *

As it turns out, Tink can’t actually come over. Something about chores – and Natalie can actually believe it, once she puts the landline-phone down, with a frown curling her lips downward – because chores are something Tink would never, _ever_ do right away – with enthusiasm, unless her parents threatened her with something, or she was going to get them done _before_ they told her to (with an implied _or else_ ) – to get them to let her do something.

Probably something along the lines of spending the night at someone’s house (always Wendy’s) on a school night, or some such.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. Natalie knows that the words dying to be released from within her chest would probably not make a difference about what had happened – and Teresa couldn’t do anything about it, even if she _did_ know what had happened, right? – so she goes off, and starts on her homework.

Her brothers enter the house, sometime later – after soccer practice – with grins on their faces and grass stains on their knees – and she smiles at them when they tumble over the back of the coach she’s been sitting on and press kisses to her cheeks and begin to prattle on about their days as she hears the front door open. She hears the front door shut, but not before she hears a woman – Hansel’s nanny, Dianne – call to the boys “good-bye!”.

It leaves her with a smile as she hears her brothers scurry up the stairs, shouting and laughing and shoving, as she returns to the essay she’s been working on. It’s just the rough draft – it’s going to have to be typed, and God knows she’s _dreadful_ with technology. Yes, yes she is – even the _Lucas_ is better at managing simple tasks than she is, and _that_ –

She shakes her head, quickly, and gathers her things – feeling her brow furrow as she does so – and heads up the stairs, and ducks into her own room, closing the door behind her, and resumed working.

She tries and keeps her mind focused on her homework, but after dinner – she’s finished – and her mind goes back to the events of the day. All she really remembers, though, is Lucas – _Lucas_ , the boy who’d been _scaring_ her – startling her – _bothering_ her – for no reason.

She’d done her part – what more did he want. What more _could_ he possibly want from her? It’s what consumes her thoughts, for a good half hour, before she huffs out a breath of frustration and scrunches her eyes shut for a brief moment.

And she’s left to lie there, motionless, on her bed, as her parents watch some sitcom downstairs with her brothers – she’s never really liked to watch those kinds of things – she prefers listening to music to that – and so when she rolls over on her side, lazily reaches out and clicks her lamp out – and promptly falls asleep – it’s all entirely by accident.

And as she sleeps (because what _else_ can she do?), she dreams.

 

* * *

 

 _Sharp, jagged branches belonging to the jungle trees seem to leer at her as she runs past them – runs as_ fast _she can. For some reason, her insides are throbbing – **deliciously so** – and even though she knows she’s looking through her own eyes, she knows this isn’t really **her**._

 _She wants to look around – to examine where she is – but her body won’t comply. It won’t_ listen _to her – but she does go faster, as someone continues to call after her – “Wendy, Wendy!” -  but, no, it’s not her, because that’s not her name –_

_Over roots and clumps of dirt she goes, faster than she’s ever run before – dashing through clearings as the ground under her feet trembles silently. She can feel his black mood, even from miles away – and she feels a hysteric laugh bubbling from somewhere inside her chest – because the adrenaline pumping through her veins, sending her faster and faster through the jungle – uncaring for where she is headed, as long as it is away from the camp – is the result of the fear that has clamped its clammy, shaking hands over her heart –_

_“Oh_ no _, you don’t,” a voice in her ear hisses, and suddenly, before she can think to dart to the left, she is shoved – painfully, yet she can’t seem to feel it as her hands scrape the rough dirt as she lands with a dulls thud on the ground – and before she can utter out a curse resting in her mouth, or any other kind of protest – hands are dragging her towards him._

 _“Your mine,” he says – growls – and she doesn’t think she remembers him this angry. It’s all her fault – she hadn’t meant to appease him at all – “you’re **mine** , _darling _, mine,”_

 _He laughs at her as she curses at him – she can’t see his face, in the shadow of the night, as she feels the first few drops of cold rain drop through the canopy of the jungle and onto the bare skin of her arms and face. She struggles, clawing at the dirt, her heart pounding in her ears, as she feels his fingers hook themselves behind her knees and drag her closer, and before she can shriek at him – to get away from her, that she will **end** him (even though it is he will end her if any ending is to be done to anyone around here) – his head is under her dress, and she tries to close her legs, because _ no, no, **no** , _she doesn’t want him to win – can’t let him see her come undone –_

_His mouth is at the apex of her thighs, hot and warm and wet, scraping and biting and suckling and kissing that makes her writhe and squirm and mewl – that makes something shoot up her spine – to the tips of her toes from the roots of her hair – and she lets out a breathy little plea, in the form of a name:_

_“Peter – ”_

* * *

 

Natalie jolts awake, breathing hard, a hand on her chest, the other gripping her sheets, with her knuckles bleeding white.  Something is throbbing, down inside of her – deep down, and it makes her cheeks redden, as her eyes quickly dart around.

Although she is already forgetting the dream, she remembers trees – trees that seemed to lean towards her, their shadows darker than night.

There are no trees here.

She tentatively peers under the sheets.

No growling voice there.

She doesn’t remember much, after a few moments of sitting up, her spine hunched over as she rests her head on the sheets in front of her lap. Her skin is still cold and clammy – and the ache between her thighs has dulled some. Her fingers have been twisting in the sheets; she’s been trying to will it away. She feels as if there is a name, on the tip of her tongue – one that she’s supposed to simply _know_ – but she can’t _remember_ what she said – or even if she was who said it – or anything like that.

All she remembers are _hands_ on her body, fingers sharply – cruelly – digging into her hips and something she shouldn’t know at the apex of her thighs.

(She can feel his fingers, still – feels like his ghost is still holding onto her.)

Natalie lifts her head, and looks at the clock. She flops down on her back, when she sees it’s only some time after twelve o’clock. Which means that everyone else is asleep, and she is left to ponder the dream she barely remembers – and why she actually got _sleep_.

She has trouble with sleep. It’s something that flees her, every time she gets near her – but now – but this time – it had come _readily_ – like its sole purpose had been to put those ghost fingers digging into her hips ( _even as she rolls around, trying to get comfortable, she still feels his bones digging into hers_ ) and an ache she cannot seem to will away.

She doesn’t go back to sleep, no matter how hard she tries to. Something nags at her – tugs and pulls at the fringes of her mind, of her memory – as if it’s begging her to remember something long lost to her. It’s no use, though – she only tries to shut it out and entertain herself by grabbing her little flashlight from her nightstand drawer and picking a book off the top of the pile on the other side of the bed – she has too many books in her rooms to count – too many for her already-stuffed-and-crowded bookshelf – and so she empties her mind, and lets words fill her up.

For as long as she can – which is only till the sun rises, and she’s packing her things, and shuffling out the door – waving goodbye to her mother  and calling after John and Michael, before the usual time. She’s going early, so she won’t have to take the bus – so she can walk alone.

Because she can still fingers digging into her hipbones – and that’s not even the strangest part. It’s not what made her eyes go wide, once she had begun dressing after her early-morning shower – it’s not what made her ultimately decide she needed some time to herself, _surely_. It’s what made her avoid her family – because surely, if she has to lie to them again what’s making her mind feel like it’s like a bit of butter spread too thinly on a slice of bread – she’s going to want to hide for the rest of her life.

No, what made something very familiar – something with clammy, cold, skeletal hands – clench her heart between her fingers were the faint little marks dotting her hips.

There are ten, in all – five for each hip – purple, small, and blue – but very _real_ , and very much _there_.

It’s impossible – but it’s not, because they’re _there_.

Perhaps, there had been some sort of ghost there, that night. Natalie doesn’t know – know anything at all.

She’s not even sure she _wants_ to know what this is all about.

Should she even  _want_ to know?


	6. These Dreams Lie Twisted and Covered in Rust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the guest "sarah". Looks like I kept my word. I'm not posting the same bullet points as before. Y'al know this by now. I want to keep realtively short chapters, but here you are. Sorry for the way; enjoy.

Lucas forgets most of his dream as soon as he wakes up, but there are still some images burned vividly into his brain, and that’s saying something, because, well, he doesn’t really _dream_. Or, at least, he’s never really remembered them. All he wakes up with that tells him he dreamt, on some days, is a bad taste in his mouth and an uncomfortable stiffness in his joint, as if he’s been running and running for hours.

This one, though—it’s left him feeling bone-tired. Sweat’s matted his hair—plastered it to his forehead—and something like adrenaline is coursing through his veins. He’s on Felix’s couch, again—of course—but he can’t shake the feeling that something’s amiss. Like he isn’t supposed to be here.

(he’s not, he’s not, he’s not.)

It’s not even three o’clock yet, and for that, he’s unhappy; when Lucas wakes, he can’t go back to sleep. Not normally. So he just lies there, in the dark, in the silence, and thinks back to what he can remember.

The feeling of roots, tree bark, and wet grass underneath him is something of a novelty—because, as far as he knows, he’s never been knocked on his back outside in his entire life. The thrumming under his veins is fading, but he still feels like he’s run miles and miles, for days, and that’s a strange feat. Because he doesn’t like to run. No, running’s the worst. He’s not _bad_ at it, per se—he just _really, really_ hates it. It makes him short of breath, it makes him miss things—sauntering out of classrooms and taking his time going down hallways is more his thing.

Something he remembers seeing, though, is this:

He was high above an island, a place with dips, and valleys, and coves and beaches. It was all very pretty, and surreal. There were no lights, there wasn’t a building in sight that told him it was inhabited, but, at the same time, someone _else_ ’s thoughts had been running through his mind.

It was hard to explain: it wasn’t quite him, who was so high above a place covered in dense, green foliage and a starry sky, with a sliver of a crescent moon at his back. Clouds were behind him, promising rain, promising cold, sweet, clean rain—he could smell it in the air—but it wasn’t _him_. But it was _his_ voice in his head.

_Where is she where is she where is she where is she . . ._

The not-him-but-still-him catches something—he doesn’t know how the not-him does it, but it’s like he immediately knows that the thing he’s looking for is heading towards the beaches on the east side of the island. And then, suddenly, he’s flying—flying fast, and it’s like going through water, he decides, thinking back (but people don’t _fly_ they just _don’t_ ) and suddenly he’s slamming into a body clad in dirty white—

And then that ends there (because his mind is a fool all on its own sometimes and maybe just maybe he wishes he could remember _more_ than that).

Lucas is scowling up at the ceiling; dreams are _stupid_. There are better things to dwell on, other things—

He remembers tangling his hands in soft, white fabric. He remembers ripping it from a body with a thrill running down his spine, he remember his hands slipping over soft, pale skin in the moonlight. He doesn’t remember a face, or a name—or anything else, really. He knows something else happened, though. He knows, because he could _feel_ a plan surfacing from the depths inside his skull, he knows he’d planned to lift up the fabric, and—

Well, that’s it. (Disappointing. That’s what dreams are.)

 (He won’t admit that he heard someone moaning—he thinks he did, he does he does—he thinks he remembers someone stuttering out a name, hands clawing at the dirt—but he won’t think about it now, no no _no_ it’s all just too strange.)

He turns on his side, and huffs out a frustrated side. _Who_ was that? And why—why why _why_ did he just start remembering his dreams?

It didn’t make sense.

Lucas detests things that don’t make sense to him. It means he doesn’t know what the problem is. And if he remembers a dream, it’s usually a problem. The last time he dreamt and remembered it—

Well, he remembers blood on leaves, soaking in the dirt.

There had been a lot of it.

(He could taste in his mouth when he woke up.)

* * *

Getting up in the morning after a sleepless night is hard. Felix has decided that he’s not going to school today—announced it from his room, because, well, it’s Felix. Today there’s going to be an assembly at school, an assembly everyone must attend. Sherif Swan is going to be there, too, and Felix doesn’t like the sheriff. She always seems to know when he’s up to something—she has yet to catch Peter skipping or doing anything unsavory—and it’s rather hilarious to see Felix try and duck out of something that, if he goes to school today, he won’t be able to get out of.

(Sherif Swan is great. Just great. Everyone loves her. Including the mayor. Especially the mayor. It’s ridiculous. And by great, he means aggravating—because he can’t very well do anything _fun_ in Storybrooke without his right-hand man at his side now _can he_.)

Lucas does it anyway, though: if they both skip, then people will notice, and then have half a reason to come knocking and _then_ they might actually have someone make them go to school _and they really wouldn’t like that_.

He shuffles around, finds a clean shirt and pair of jeans in the mess that’s the living area, and then enters the kitchen—beelining it to the fridge. He opens it—and, of course of course _of course_ —there’s really not much in there, and that means he’s going to have to leave the comfort of the house _now_ if he wants a chance to eat breakfast at school in peace and quiet.

Despite how good a muffin sounds, he’s not too fond at being at school—like, at all—because all it’s good for is rotting his brain. It’s a place with lots of footrests, mediocre food, and—

And _Natalie_.

Natalie!

How could he have _forgotten_ such a thing?

The thought of her nervous form and her turning around just in time to see him wink at her—from yesterday—makes the corners of his mouth quirk into a smile. It’s an incentive that he needed; he now quickly pulls on his shoes and jacket, and then heads out the door. Never mind the fact that it’s raining—again—but, hey, he’s got something to look forward to.

And—and—don’t they have an _assembly_ today?

He’s nearly across a street when it hits him:

This is a _perfect_ opportunity. The one that’s going to make his day. The assembly—you can’t skip it, and if you do, you’re either stupid or a genius—and no one would stare if _Natalie_ didn’t show up. Natalie—she goes unnoticed, she’s slight, with her hair tied behind her head, and her skirts and her _tights_ and her _skirts_ and—

Yes. Yes. He knows what he’s going to do. And it’s going to be great fun.

When the school comes into sight, his smile has transformed wholly into a smirk.

But he doesn't know where this came from, he doesn't know how he's going to do it or why he wants to, but he thinks he can get her to meet him behind the building, behind the bleachers near the soccer field, where the windows don't reach. And he won't ask himself, he just walks through the doors and heads through the cafeteria.

( _he walks in with a wicked, wicked smirk on his lips._ )

* * *

You have to pass through the cafeteria in order to get to half your classes. It’s just how it is. It’s what Lucas is counting on. He’s got the last bit of his muffin in his mouth when he sees Natalie walk in, looking dead-tired, alongside her friend—Teresa—whom he has the urge to _sneer_ at for whatever reason (but whatever it is it might be a good one because he has never really liked that older girl anyway because she always seems to _know_ something and have it waiting and ready to be said to the whole world while it rested behind her teeth and he does not _like_ that feeling).

The assembly. It’s something about public safety. Lucas thinks Natalie can miss it. Thinks he can get her to agree—thinks that he can get away with brushing her thighs and her hips and her sides and her fingers with his throughout the day, thinks that he can get her to jump, to _squeak_ like a mouse—

Teresa turns and says something to Natalie, who nods, and her friend turns to go towards the line leading up to the cashier to pay for grabbing breakfast on your way out of the kitchen.

Natalie looks a bit lost, like she always does, without Teresa. She stands there, nervously, eyes flitting about—

They meet his. He grins at her—wolf-like—and he doesn’t miss the way they widen, doesn’t miss the way she wobbles a bit—as if she’s trying to find a way out of it. (Out of _what_? What is ‘it’? He doesn’t know, doesn’t know at all—doesn’t care to have a name for it, either.)

He beckons with a crook of his finger. He knows what he said—that he’d leave her alone, after she gave him the answers. But he’s a liar, a liar and perhaps a thief—who’s going to steal her away from something she wouldn’t miss even if she was in the nurse’s office because you can’t _be absent_ from assemblies and she’s the kind of girl who wouldn’t get in trouble even if she did.

(So why not? Why not meet her outside, why not miss out on an opportunity that he’s hoping he has _without knowing what he really wants to do with_?)

He does it again, because she’s just _standing_ there, and then she’s walking towards him, looking like she’d like _nothing_ better than to run away from him, as fast as she can, and—

There’s a flash of white, flitting through a dense thicket of trees—he’s laughing at her—

And then it’s over.

He blinks, pushes it back, back, back (because that’s never happened before and he’s _not_ going to think about now no he’ll think about it another time—and he’s pretending that he isn’t a little alarmed) so he can focus on Wendy, ignoring the shiver of a thrill traveling up and down his spine. She stops in front of him, clutching at the strap to her book bag.

She’s wearing red tights now. Another thick sweater, another skirt. Her hair, it’s braided, and—

There are circles under her eyes. Dark, telling ones at that.

He decides to pretend not to notice them ( _pretends he wants to wonder about that_ ).

Lucas says slowly, “Natalie,” drawing out the _t_ , as he leans towards her. Smiles at her, in a way that makes her shift her weight from one foot to the other—a way that makes her glance over her shoulder.

Teresa’s not here to save her from him now.

(where did that come from she doesn’t need saving he’s not some _big bad wolf_ who’d like to eat her whole)

“Lucas,” she says, clearing her throat. Looking nervous. “I thought—”

“No,” he says simply, his smile widening. “I changed my mind. No deal.”

Something like anger flits across her features—he wants to _laugh at her_ for it. (He’s surprised at this.)

“You—you _can’t_ ,” she tries, stepping forward. “You _said_ —”

“I know what I said. And I lied.”

Natalie turns from him, suddenly—but he’s not going to let this go. No, no, he won’t.

He stands, and steps close. Close enough that he can smell vanilla and peppermint on her—close enough that she has to look up at him to meet his eyes.

The anger is mingling with confusion—with that same _nervousness_ that he finds so amusing. She looks over her shoulder again, at Teresa, and he sees that she’s almost out of the line. He smiles down at her, his fingers itching to reach out and touch her arm before she runs off like he thinks she will—so he lets them.

To his satisfaction, it works.

Natalie makes a sound, high in her throat, and steps away, nearly stumbling over her feet in the process of trying to get away from him.

“You said you would leave me alone,” she hissed, her tone quiet, but accusing. Sounding angry enough for him to raise his eyebrows at her. It isn’t enough, though—the sound she made, her reaction—it’s not enough. His fingertips are still itching. But he grins and takes it all in—her accusatory tone, the blood that might be beginning to simmer underneath her skin.

 “I lied,” he said, “I’ve decided I wanted to get to know you better. You just seem so _nice_.”

Natalie’s eyes narrow. She opens her mouth, but then they both hear “ _Natalie!_ ” and that means Teresa is looking for it, and he sees the relief wash over her as she turns and hurries away.

He scowls.

It’s fine, Lucas tells himself, as the two girls walk away. It’s fine, because he’ll just find her later. If he doesn’t corner her soon, though—she won’t do a thing he asks of her .

(Asking her to do something and her doing it is much sweeter than blackmail, he decides—and if she says yes than it will be akin to a battle lost in some war she got herself into.)

It’s fine. Really. All he has to do is find her later. That’s it.

And then his day will be made.

(And that’s how it starts.)

 


End file.
